Synopsis: This original romantic detective novel entitled Her First
Bow is set in London in the 1920's and features two main characters who
are original, but at the same time will ring a bell for many readers.
Is there a malevolent mind behind the trail of blood, murder and mayhem that
follows them through their adventures and if so, who is it? Will this
bring our two heroines together or force them apart? ... The characters were
first introduced in the prologue entitled “A Sea Change” which you can find
in the Original Stories section of my website at http://web.mac.com/kbowring
I hope you enjoy the first two parts of "Her First Bow" – the next
thrilling instalment coming soon...

For those of you who like “the hot stuff”, be assured in true romantic fashion
we will get there in time, but not in this instalment – just stick along for
the ride.

Her First Bow

by Kay Bowring

Chapter One: The Girls

Unbelievable! I’d met the woman of my dreams only to have her run off to work
on other projects. Here I was in this dark city, London, having met her on
the crossing on the Aquitania and discovered she was Sherlock Holmes daughter.
It seemed like a marriage made in heaven, but pinning down Miss Elena Adler
Norton was proving difficult. I’d seen her only once or twice. Maybe, I’d
misread her during our time in the Aquitania’s lounge. Clearly, I needed to
find a way to spend more time with her. I had a few plans about how I was going
to do this.

In the meantime, I got to know my birth father, Dr. John Watson and by extension
his friend Sherlock Holmes. My birth father and I had decided that I would call
Dr. Watson “Dad”, not ‘Papa’ as I had Henri Roussel.

Sometimes, I speculated on Papa Henri’s intentions in leaving me his vast fortune,
but I’d decided that marriage to Claude wasn’t part of his plan. He’d supported
my tennis career, taught me how to be an independent woman and made me and my
brother see the responsibilities of money. No, I thought he wanted something
more. He knew he could trust me to care for Mama and the house in Westmount
which I missed, even in the great city of London. Yet, a yearning in my soul
had set me on this path and I would follow it through.

I learned a lot about London when viewing the sights with Dad. I also spent
some time with an estate agent from Chelsea trying to find a new home for the
new detective agency in the more fashionable parts of London such as the Strand,
Belgravia or South Kensington. I’d viewed some possibilities in a few of the
four-story brick buildings of South Kensington where there were a number of
Victorian family hotels that would require some updating and could be acquired
cheaply. However, without Elena’s agreement I could not do anything because
she was to be my partner in this venture.

Dad was keen on buying in Bloomsbury, which was closer to the city, cheaper
and had easy access to the British Museum. Of course, he didn’t know the real
reason I wanted this building. I wanted a new look that would impress not only
wealthy clients but also a middle-class clientele. Our agency would be different
from that housed at Holmes’s old offices on Baker Street. After all, Elena
and I, at least as I saw it, were going go toe-to-toe with the new Pinkerton’s
Detective Agency. They were getting a great deal of the custom because they
were big American men with large guns. We, however, could go to a lot of places
where they were not welcome and that would be our selling point. I wanted my
choice of premises to demonstrate to Elena that I was serious about all this.

At Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone, Dad had taken me to meet one of the founder’s
grandsons who’d allowed me to touch the inside of the death masks of Marie Antoinette
and Louis XVI that his grandmother had made of them immediately after their
encounter with the guillotine. Joseph Randall Tussaud, a man with Edwardian-style
whiskers and a striped silk waistcoat – a character worthy of Dickens with the
personality of a sideshow barker, had told me while rolling his great brown
eyes, of his grandmother’s great misery at touching the trunk-less heads of
the great monarchs after knowing them so well in life. He sobbed as I pressed
a gold guinea into his lace handkerchief. Then, he promptly cheered up and
showed me some of the chemicals they had once used in making the death masks
for rogues such as Crippen, the first man caught with the use of fingerprints
– Holmes’s own discovery, even though he’d kept that fact modestly out of the
papers.

Dad was so upset by the diorama of Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty at the Reichenbach
Falls that we were forced to adjourn to the Savoy Grill with its comforting
green banquettes and large trolleys of roasted meat. After some food he seemed
to be calmer. Rolling a cigarette, he sized me up. “You’re nothing like Beryl.
That discussion on embalming fluids and wax preparations would have made her
faint. Of course, your mother Constance was, as the Americans say, a tougher
cookie than I suspected. I would never have believed she would have demanded
a divorce and run off with that wild man, Henri Roussel.”

I doubted the first part of this statement since my half-sister, who I was
going to meet in four days from now in Cornwall, was a qualified chemist. She
had worked in Dad’s surgery in London as a child. She was a qualified chemist
in St. Ives in Cornwall now as well as Dad’s assistant and was doubtless tougher
than her father realized. Papa Henri would have soon had had the truth of the
matter, but I had discovered my new father had a softer, Victorian concept of
ladies and their tender sensibilities. I decided to take the high road and
not talk about my mother; she was quite capable of talking for herself when
she turned up, as she inevitably would.

“Could we please have a decanter of the 30 year old Talisker and two glasses?”
I motioned to a passing waiter.

The waiter’s light brown eyebrows shot up and he gave my father a meaningful
glance. I sighed; the Savoy Grill was truly masculine territory. He shrugged
his shoulders and made ‘a hurry up’ gesture back at the dubious waiter.

“Henri certainly raised you like a boy,” he continued, “You’re just like Elena,
Sherlock’s daughter.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “is she coming to Cornwall?”

He smiled sweetly; I could see what mother had once seen in him. “Yes, yes,
Elena is unpredictable up to a point, but she will be coming along. I still
think your plan of driving down in the new car is most irregular, but she was
keen as mustard according to Holmes. Still, who will protect you on the road?”

As we waiter for the decanter, I noticed the now familiar figure of Holmes,
with his hawk profile and lupine approach. He often joined us in the later
afternoon from the British Museum where he would have begun work in the mid-morning.
He’d heard the end of our conversation.

“It is a lengthy journey down the Portsmouth Road toward Cornwall,” he gave
me a crocodilian smile, “How indeed? Even today, this road has,” he breathed,
“an unsavoury reputation.”

“Gentlemen, allow me to reassure you.” I placed my hand in the pocket of
my black woollen outer coat. The bottomless pocket allowed me access to the
pocket of my brown knit dress. There, with the flip of button, I reached into
the specially constructed leather holster underneath my chemise and above my
silk stockings. No one would have known it was there, so well constructed was
the disguise. I had a similar shoulder holster for wearing underneath a couple
of my other coats as well. I placed the Browning HP on the table. The men
leaned forward gazing at the gun as thought they’d never seen a firearm before.

“It just came the other day from France. It’s a prototype; my father funded
Browning in the design of this gun. It carries 13 rounds with one in the chamber
and can kill at 150 feet. And the next version will only get better.”

Sherlock Holmes’s full attention was on the weapon. “You had a special leather
strap cradle designed to wear this on your thigh. You are full of surprises,
dear girl. You should have been with Elena and me in France during the Great
War when I was forced to use beekeeping as a cover while Watson here was busy
in St. Ives. Elena will be pleased.”

“That,” I said, “is hard to tell.”

“Indeed, indeed my daughter can be, how do you young put it ‘a cool customer’.
But she will appreciate your attention to detail.” He grinned. Then he picked
up the 9 mm as though it was a delicate object, “And you’ve worn and fired this
item?”

“Papa was involved with a number of gun manufacturers. This one, as I say,
is the first of its kind. It’s probably four years from production. He trained
me in the use of firearms, including handguns, when we were hunting in the bush
together during the war. He liked to get away; my brother Jean Michel was at
the front so Papa and I used to go into some isolated places in Northern Quebec
and Northern Ontario. I was usually dressed as a boy.” I grinned, “But I’m
afraid my face and hair will brook no illusions on that score. Papa wanted
me to be well protected. Some of the men up there, are, shall we say enthusiastic?
Even, my cousin Claude was on the front in Belgium with the Vingt-Douze. So,
I had to help Papa and L’oncle Aramis with every aspect of the family business.”

“Boots.” Holmes affirmed.

“Boots, as you say! Good boots, though many are buried deep in Belgian and
French soil.” My voice quavered. “My second cousin Claude handles the daily
business at home right now.”

Holmes patted my hand gently, “Miss Roussel you need not worry on that account,
no soldier was buried with Roussel boots unless it was, and I hope you take
my meaning, strictly necessary. They outwore their competitors’ boots! You
need not feel ashamed of coming from boot money; they wear, as the advertisements
say, like very good boots. But how did your mother take these excursions into
the bush?”

If I looked surprised by the question, I was. “Mama understood completely.
It was Papa’s wish that I accompany him into the bush; I can speak Cree and
enjoyed my time up there with the native people. Papa made his first start-up
money working the trap lines in Northern Quebec and Ontario. My older brother
Jean Michel was half Cree; his mother Maria died in 1882 of tuberculosis when
he was still a baby. I thought, until recently, that I was Papa’s only daughter.
It was a shock to find out that this wasn’t the truth but the will specified
that I should be told. My brother, like so many of the men of this sad generation,
was highly accomplished. He was an excellent horseman, a crack shot and he
planned to be a doctor.”

“Ah, he did not intend to enter the business.”

“Well,” I explained, “he would always have had shares in the company although
my cousin Claude would run it. Claude is a born businessman.”

“And how,” my father queried, “does Constance take your wide ranging interests?
I assume the house in upper Westmount and its belongings are your mother’s?”
A weary tone crept into his voice, “and remembering Constance as I do, she must
desire your marriage very much. Is she coming here to London to present you
to society? Your money will open many doors. In other words, dearest, will
Connie be upset if she finds out that you are keeping company with Holmes, myself
and Elena?” The gravitas in their manner suggested strongly that the old dears
were alarmed by the possibility of my flame-haired mother descending on them
like some harpy of retribution. I almost laughed, but knowing my mother as
I did, I did not discount their worries.

“It is Mummy’s greatest wish that I marry my cousin Claude.”

Dad pursued his theme, “And Claude?”

“Claude is very fond of me and has asked me to marry him.”

“And you?” Holmes demanded.

“I love Claude as a brother. I will never marry him. He knows this.”

“Quite,” he noted. “But he has not given up hope.”

I enunciated, “Mr. Holmes, the house in Westmount and its belongings are mine
as are three quarters of the stock in Roussel and Brothers. Mother will continue
to live in the house, well provided for by my father’s will until the day of
her death. As the major beneficiary of my late father’s will, I intend to pursue
philanthropic ventures related to the betterment of my sex and assistance to
the poor. This year, alone, I have funded the work necessary for a new Cree/English
primer and a new, and hopefully, better school in St. Augustine on the Ontario/Quebec
border. This small school was one Jean Michel’s wishes as was the desire that
we should use our money for good.”

“A young woman with your looks, so chic and beautiful,” Holmes commented.
“Some would find it sad that you are not more interested society and marriage.
Of course, your ideas are most laudable. But you are young.”

I sighed. “None of us is the same now, Mr. Holmes. My life must justify those
thousands of lives that were lost in France and Belgium.” At this point I changed
the subject, “It is my understanding that there is quite a society of independent
writers and young adventurous women in Paris. Dolly Wilde, Oscar’s niece lives
there. She is, I have heard, an interesting hostess.”

My father choked, “Good heavens Mariah, that tragic man and his life. He brought
ruin to his family and only a few of his friends dared stand by him before his
death. I think you should be careful before getting mixed up with that crowd.
We all knew or suspected that Oscar was, well different – but society is very
cruel to those who follow his path and I want you to be cautious whatever your
personal feelings.”

Holmes seemed to disagree and broke into the discussion. “Yes, it was an unparalleled
social tragedy. Oscar’s sad fate makes us consider the value of discretion.
He drew out that last word firmly before continuing, “The world and its women
are changing. They can vote now, you know. However, as you well know Watson,
Elena is quite familiar with Miss Wilde. She runs in a cultured circle in Paris.
As you may not know, Mariah, Elena was an ardent suffragette before the war.
In which pursuit, you may also not know, I firmly supported her, in spite of
the inconvenience to myself and the injury to her person.” He shook himself
slightly, “Ah well, time stands still for none of us. Our time is past, Watson.
So he returned pointedly to the subject of the gun, “I take it you’ve used the
gun?” He stared at the Browning.

“On the range. I’ve I winged a man with a pistol who,” I cast my eyes down
politely, “bothered me. And once I shot and killed a brown bear. He was stampeding
the Cree village I was in and I had no choice. Unfortunate, but his salted
carcass fed the village for several weeks. I’m also a dab hand with a shotgun.”

“Well,” Holmes smiled, “She’s clearly your daughter, my dear Watson. Elena
wants you to know she’ll meet you in front of Brown’s tomorrow at eleven sharp
Mariah.” I drew a deep breath. For one second I thought his clear eyes saw
my desire for the desirable, elusive Elena. I longed, no I needed, to have
her pin me with the same intense glance she had on the ocean bound liner. “She
says she’s sorry about her absence,” he added softly, “but she’s been busy with
a problem of some deep nature.”

***

I was up early the next morning to make a dawn pickup. I was still raving
about my new toy when Elena met me at eleven fifteen at the front door. I could
hardly fail to notice the tall sylph-like silhouette of my friend. From the
bottom of her navy Mary Jane shoes with the silver buckle to top of her elegant
hat with the wide vertical front and the elegant feather, she was the embodiment
of fashion. Underneath her unbuttoned navy coat, she wore a dress in striped
blue and white silk with a V yoke neck. The stripes were artfully arranged
so that while they ran straight down the dropped waist dress skirt, they ran
horizontally in bands around the bottom. With her navy coat, she was the picture
of elegance. Her usually wild locks were tamed into smoothness around her face,
and came together in a large bun with some frenzied curls peaking out around
her face.

For a moment, I felt bashful about my green wool crepe Chanel suit with the
three quarter length coat and the simple fitted skirt over the white and pink
pin-striped blouse and my black, wide brimmed picture hat. Could I possibly
appear as elegant as Elena? My silver blonde hair was short with a thick bang,
but didn’t feel that I quite had the 1920’s style. I’d even had to wear a designer
variation of the Symington Side lacer to obtain the desired flat-chested look,
although I wasn’t that large. I just couldn’t emulate Elena’s fashionable boyishishness.
I covered these feelings of inadequacy immediately by turning to my new automobile.

“She's beautiful, look at her golden skin.” I cried, “It's unbelievable!
Feel that satin! Unbelievable! Such steady handling, I can hardly wait to feel
her purr underneath me. The minute I saw the photos of these beauties in Le
Devoir, I knew this was what I wanted.” I ran my hands along the beautifully
contoured gold hood and down the brown toned side panels. All the way back
to the hotel, I had tried not to stare at the gorgeous customized wood inner
dashboard panelling. In the narrow London streets and lanes, the new vehicle
was wonderfully responsive, which also meant I had to keep my mind on what I
was doing.

Unfortunately, at the present moment, I seemed to be the only one who was moved
by my new machine. I thought sadly of Papa Henri or my brother Jean Michel
who would have appreciated this new purchase. Ah well, I would make the best
of it for both their sakes.

My companion was slightly impatient. “You’re right, Mariah it is beautiful.
But the girls are expecting us for lunch in Soho at Les Villageois.
Is this the surprise you were talking about earlier? What makes it so remarkable?”
There was a faint, teasing overtone to her voice although I sensed a great weariness
in her manner. Perhaps, Christmas in St. Ives was coming just in time to give
her a break.

There was a slightly imperious tilt to her dark head. For a moment I could
see traces of her mother Irene Adler on the boards where she was the reigning
Queen of the Theatre in San Francisco. She gestured at my new mechanical friend
that had taken over a month to be completed and shipped from the factory in
France where it had been assembled to my custom specifications.

I shook my head. “I don't believe it! Do you realize that this car is the
newest innovation on four wheels? It has an overhead cam shaft, an 8 litre
engine and power assisted breaks. This is a veritable goddess among cars.
This automobile can get us where we want to go faster with greater agility than
any other vehicle.”

Blue eyes crinkled mischievously as she remembered details of an event she’d
probably read about while she was still in the United States. “Hmm, I'd heard
that a Duesenberg beat the Hispano Suiza in speed trials in Wichita, Kansas
in September.” Her voice conveyed a sense of bland innocence.

Hah, I’d caught her! She remembered far too much detail for such affected
disinterest. “Really, well you are paying attention after all, Miss Adler Norton!
And here I thought an automobile was just a method of transportation to you,
no better than a horse and cart when it came down to it.”

“Not at all! I've studied the combustion engine in all its forms quite thoroughly.
It may interest you to know I drove an ambulance in Normandy for a while during
the Great War. But they are just not as interesting as lunch right now.” She
picked a piece of lint from her immaculately tailored coat and looked at her
patent leather shoes with their fashionable wedged heels. “As a matter of
interest, however, it is notable that the Hispano-Suiza is more manoeuvrable
than the other car. And manoeuvrability is crucial, as the Spanish Armada learned
to their great sorrow. So, Mariah you’ve done well. Well, sweetie, can we
go now? I'm starving please." She clapped her navy gloved hands slightly,
begging with entrancing pout.

I thought about the gloves. While we were outside the hotel, she’d been fiddling
with her gloves and I’d seen distinct cuts on her left hand. If they were probably
from an experiment that she'd been working on for the last couple of weeks,
I wondered whether I should ask.

“And what has kept you so busy?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been conducting a series of experiments on eyeglasses, to see how
the resulting discomfort would affect the wearer. You may have noticed the
cuts. I was experimenting with grinding lenses. Glass can be tricky.”

“And what did you get?”

“A series of horrible migraines.”

“How awful, but what was the purpose of this experiment?”

She tilted her head to one side. “I’d read about a case of a man in Lorraine,
France who had killed himself, the only thing mentioned was a series of headaches
that had been apparently being driving him mad. He apparently was experiencing
vision problems. His wife got married very quickly after his death. And I
wondered if it was possible to drive someone, in a fragile state, to kill themselves
by changing their spectacle lenses just enough to drive them mad with pain.
I just sent my results to Lestrade Junior, who was communicating them to the
Surete.”

“And so?”

“It – if my experiments are anything to go by – is more than possible to make
someone with a fragile mind and other problems experience serious difficulties.
I thought, however, that there would need to be a malevolent and informed agency
behind the changing of the lenses.” She smiled, “For days, my head felt like
it was going to explode. Today is the first day I’ve felt better especially
now that you’re here.” She grinned. “Have you thought about where we are going
to break our journey?”

“I thought somewhere around Wiltshire. You know, we must be prepared for the
usual tire blow outs and road conditions that will greet us along the way,”
I mentioned, “You look a little pale. I hope you’re up to the journey. I’ve
been looking forward to it for some time.”

She smiled gently, “Even with the tire blow outs, it will be heaven to be in
the open air – just like being in France again except with you and nobody chasing
us. What could be more fun? I did drive an ambulance for awhile and can,”
she gave me a mischievous grin, “find my way around a wrench if need be, my
Northern friend. I think we’ll be making excellent time if we make it to Salisbury.
Good plan.”

“Well, I was going to say that I can face these conditions because they can’t
be worse than the roads in the Laurentians on the way to Lac Brule. I’m ready.”

“Shall we go then?” Elena murmured.

“Right, there we are.” I opened the door to usher her in. She made much of
getting herself arranging herself perfectly.

“Are you fully packed?” She asked.

“Yes,” I explained, “Dad’s taken all the heavier luggage down to Cornwall in
his larger vehicle, and the rest stays in the rooms in Mayfair. Brown’s is,
for the present time, my home away from home until I find a place.”

“A place?” She inquired meeting my eyes.

“Our place,” I stated expanding, “the place where we will work in the near
future. I thought Kensington perhaps, considering the nature of our clientele?
What do you think?”

“Our clientele? I want to make sure, Mariah, that you’re happy with this arrangement.
I hope you feel, after you meet my friends, that you still want to know me,”
she said.

“Perhaps Elena, you will find that the tennis world is more varied than you
realize. I’m used to people from many worlds,” I assured her.

“I hope so,” she said.

I pulled out the choke, pressed the starter pedal and headed toward Bond Street.
Eventually, I found myself on Oxford Street heading east toward Wardour where
the our destination lay. I stopped the car outside the restaurant on the narrow
street, and parked with the wheels well up onto the curb. My companion raised
an eyebrow at me.

“Well, I want to leave enough room for the traffic to pass.” I indicated the
street with my hand. “It’s narrow and this is a new car.”

She teased, “Are you afraid someone will bash your new toy?”

“Yes, I do care if someone bashes my toy, as you call it.”

“Well, I guess it was love at first sight.” She sighed, and then laughed.
The car was clearly not a preoccupation that I was going to share, at least
not right away.

“I’m just being careful.” I defended my spot. And I had noticed other vehicles
on the road, parked in a similar fashion. “In Montreal, St. Catherine’s Street
is wide enough to have a line of parked cars on either side with plenty of room
to spare.”

“And in New York, Park Avenue is the same,” she grinned back at me. We were
as one again.

Just as I turned to follow her into the restaurant, a fast imperial blue
car with gold trim cut through the road on the far side. It was gone before
I could note the make or see the driver.

Elena’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, “Now, that was a Duesenberg.”
She noted. “Yes, Mariah you did very well with the Hispano-Suiza, did you see
that slight lack of control in the turn?”

She turned and I followed her into the restaurant which was cheerful and chic
in an artistic kind of way. Dad had been worried by Elena’s choice of lunchtime
venue and slightly concerned about my meeting’ the girls.’ However, he seemed
to come around rather grumpily and accede that Elena’s friends were as he called
them ‘singular’ and ‘good fun’. Now, I got to see what he had meant.

‘The girls’ had taken a large table at the back of the room where a cloud of
smoke hung in the air. I immediately saw why we had come here instead of the
more conservative Savoy Grill favoured by Dad. As I approached the table, I
noticed that one of the women was wearing a man’s suit and sported short slicked-back
hair. Two of her other friends were wearing tweed jackets and jaunty wide skirts
that announced that they were ‘new women’ or feminists. One had freckles and
pale red hair and gold-rimmed glasses. A couple of others seemed to be more
conventionally dressed in knit dresses, beads and jackets – but I had been told
in advance that one of these women was Lisette Banks, a well known oil painter.
And I’d seen her picture in a small art gallery I’d visited one day with Elena.
Yes, I thought this group would certainly have gotten up the nose of the businessmen
at Savoy Grill. I wondered if one of the famous trolleys of roasted meat would
have self immolated at the mere appearance of Elena’s friends.

Elena grinned as she approached the table. “I say, Elena laying it on a bit
thick what?” The woman in the man’s suit said in a lazy tone.

“Do you think so, Joss?” Elena twirled around showing off the beautifully
tailored American suit, “I thought it made a significant statement for my clients.
After all, some of us have to work. This is my friend, Mariah Roussel. Mariah,
Vicountess Jocelyn Hamilton. We met at Vassar before the war.”

“Such a bore, university.” Lady Joss knit her heavy eyebrows, “Especially
when one can’t get a real degree, even in one’s own country.” She stood up
and extended her hand, “You must be the bootmaker’s heiress. Such a lot of
money in leather, isn’t there? This is my special friend, Lisette Banks.”
She indicated the woman beside her in a stylish, but conventional green knit
suit. “Lisette is an oil painter, but in spite of her training and acceptance
into the French academy, here in London all people want to see is pictures of
women and children because she’s a woman painter. What do you think of that,
Miss Roussel?”

She gave me a challenging glance that I recognized well from my school days.
It was the one that preceded my flattening the person who tried it on by using
learning and hard-learned social graces. The one thing I could say about mother
is that she’d prepared me well to deal with the Lady Joss’s of this life.

I smiled sweetly. “I’m sorry Lady Joss, I’m afraid I’m just a little convent
girl from Vieux Quebec and art really isn’t my forte. Still, some of the pieces
I saw at the recent exhibition I went to with Elena reminded me of Gauguin or
perhaps Matisse.”

“You went to see my exhibition,” Lisette looked pleased.

“Yes, two weeks ago I believe. I thought that your use of form is very similar
to Matisse whereas the colours reminded me of Gauguin. In Canada, I believe
the Group of Seven is trying to do something very similar using the Canadian
landscape. You probably wouldn’t know their work – Tom Thompson, A.Y. Jackson,
MacDonald – there has been a great deal of discussion about their work back
home.”

“Yes,” Lady Joss noted, “We are all very interested in what is going on abroad
in America.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Elena start to speak but I’d already
beat her to the punch, “Canada is very different from the United States. In
fact, they are quite separate countries.”

“Surely,” Lady Joss commented, “there are more similarities. Prohibition,
for example, so barbaric and backward. You must have it too.”

“Well...” I warmed to my explanation, “It was repealed in Quebec after two
months.”

“Ah,” Lisette’s eyes narrowed to considering slits. I noticed she was wearing
a long string of real pearls and a matching leaf and gold brooch with several
large diamonds and seed pearls. “Yes, Quebec, all those paintings of Krieghoff’s
jolly habitants. Such fun, lovely sleighs and snow rides.”

“Quite,” I said coolly, “it’s how I spend my winter nights by the fires in
those quaint country inns. And don’t forget how my milkman looks just like
someone out of a Paul Kane painting.”

Her bright intelligent eyes took me in, “Paul Kane? You mean the Indian in
full headdress. She’s having us on, girls.” She gave me a chummy smile; I’d
have no further trouble there. “It was too awful of you, Joss, to mention the
boot money, so vulgar. I’m actually from good old merchant stock myself. It’s
only Joss and the Hons that are real blue-bloods. Well, let’s shake on it and
say no more.” She extended her hand and gave her partner a ‘behave yourself’
look.

“Well, you did rather ask for it,” I suggested.

“Canadians are very sensitive.” Elena warned her friends.

“But Americans aren’t,” I raised an eyebrow at her, “I’m not even going there.
How do you feel about Edgar Wallace?”

“Oh that dreadful little man, never has anyone written more rubbish about detectives
than him!”

Elena spied the back of the room searching for the waiter, “Oh dear, do you
suppose I could get a gin and tonic? Look, Sidney’s already got one.”

“Elena, if you wanted service we should have just gone downstairs at Browns.”
One of the women in purple plaid skirts with a matching houndstooth jacket said
cheerfully. “You never get service here in Soho, unless you wait and wait.”

“Of course, you’re right Violet, I’m just hopeful.” Elena waved her hand
vigorously and a waiter came sneaking up to the table, smelling strongly of
tobacco.

“I’d like a gin and tonic and breadsticks,” Elena asked, adding the second
item quickly. The waiter disappeared before anyone could ask anything further
of him. She then turned to Sidney who was beside her. “Please,” she begged.

“Those are ours,” Sidney pointed out.

“I’ll share mine as soon as they arrive.” The waiter slide in with the gin
and tonic and breadsticks and seemed to evaporate faster than a cloud. “Ah,
here it is, and damn. He’s gone.” Elena shook her head.

“Considering your impatience with life’s ordinary matters, it’s amazing how
you can sit for days in one of Sherlock’s old bolt holes.” Lady Joss laughed.
She came over and slapped me on the back, “Convent girl, eh? Well, I guess
you’re all right if Elena says so.” It was fortunate that I’d had a lot of
practice keeping upright when pushed because she was tall and strong and her
thump was a heavy as a lumberjack’s. “What kind of rifles did you buy? We
go and shoot at the ancestral pile all the time. Elena just wraps herself in
a fur coat and smokes, cussing at us all. But it’s good fun. What’s the biggest
thing you’ve taken down?”

I grinned back Joss, finding some common ground with the aristocrat. “Well,
I treated myself to a pair of twin Watson 12 bores with sidelock ejectors with
beautiful figured work on the butt. I’ve taken down deer and a big brown bear
in Northern Ontario with Papa’s Evans.” I shook my head, remembering, “Actually,
I was really sad to do that but he came out of the bush suddenly and charged
me. Nothing I could do about it, actually. But none of him went to waste,
the locals were more than happy to use his skin and meat.”

“You mean Indians, real Indians?” The woman with the pale red hair broke in
a breathless voice. “Living the traditional way like in the pictures?”

“I’m sorry you’re...?”

“Sylvia Greenway, I’m a medico – a doctor. I just wondered how they managed
to live on in the traditional way?”

“Well, where I was with Papa they were mostly Northern Cree. And as for managing,
it’s pretty hard to get by the traditional way. The children are sent to residential
schools where they have to speak English and can’t speak their native tongue
and the conditions are pretty harsh.”

“But, surely,” Sylvia began, “I mean, the missionaries mean well. They need
to live in our world – speak English, become civilized. And you can’t live
on the land anymore, you need to change your ways.”

With a sudden clarity of vision, I remembered Papa and the Northern Cree guides
with whom he was so comfortable. When he spoke their language fluently, their
faces would light up like candles. I remembered how in these early days, when
I was barely ten, even when I could hear the loud barking of the large dogs
and the slight whispers of the people as they watched the young girl who accompanied
her brother and father. My silvery blonde hair had garnered a lot of attention,
even though it was well covered by a red plaid hat, and I wasn’t dressed like
a girl. I was mindful of Papa’s words to keep my head, not to stare or look
others in the eye, and to listen carefully to the words of the elders. For
a moment, I lost myself in my memories, and then jerked myself back into the
present with a start.

“Oh, I’m sorry Sylvia, you were talking about civilization. Well, the conditions
are bad in those schools – tuberculosis spreads like wildfire, and I’m sorry
to say they’re not happy.”

“But things will get better?” I did not have the heart to explain it to her.
Her blue eyes appeared so gentle and sincere through her gold frames.

“Of course, they will,” I agreed, hastily dropping the subject.

“Yes, well, that’s our plucky Sylvia,” Joss boasted, “Got her medical education
in Edinburgh and they tried to stop her, but she persisted.”

I gave her a look of deeper respect. Edinburgh’s medical school was known
for its unwelcoming attitude toward women. But Joss was chatting on, “The other
two girls over there, she indicated the women in the matching plaids in greens
and violets, are the Hons – Violet Buckles and Sidney Marchmont. They run a
gallery not far from here. They were both ambulance drivers in France during
the war. Violet’s family has an ancestral pile down in Dorset, don’t you know,
but the place is simply falling to bits. And of course, that gorgeous creature
with the dark hair in the beige knit is Georgie Cruikshank, the journalist.”

“I think we should order now that we’re all here – Violet dear,” Georgie barked
out at the woman in purple plaid, you should remove your tie from the butter
dear.”

Violet started and withdrew her tie. The conversation was very jolly; many
of the women had served like Lady Joss during the war in France. So, they were
slightly older than me.

Finally, Elena, with a certain directness, went out to the kitchen and searched
out the waiter. Duck l’Orange was the entree of the day. Remarkably, it was
excellent, despite the tardiness of the service. Elena watched from the sidelines
as Lady Joss invited both of us up to Woolburne Lodge in the East Midlands sometime
after New Year for a large shooting party.

At three thirty, we strolled out of the restaurant and then swung by the hotel
with the car. Elena was quiet, giving me time to get everything strapped down
and loaded with the help of the staff.

As we drove through the city streets toward the Portsmouth Road, she suddenly
asked, “So what did you think?”

“You mean, of the girls? Of Lady Joss and Sylvia and the others?”

“Yes,” she turned to me, “I know that Joss mentioned the boots, which was really
bad of her, but you seemed to handle it all right.”

“My father taught me that people who cared about the boots weren’t worth knowing.”

“So?”

I relaxed slightly, “Yes, I liked them. Very much. And I liked Joss in spite
of the boots because I knew she didn’t really care. I’ve met lots of women
just like them on the tennis courts, you know.”

“You have? I mean, I thought on the ship that we were – I mean – that you
and I were connecting but I didn’t realize who you were, John Watson’s daughter,
for heaven’s sake. Still, I didn’t consider that you might have known women
like Joss and the others before. So I thought.” She fell silent.

“You thought I wouldn’t like you anymore, that I was like those people before
the war who came after Wilde. Let me tell you that people like Joss exist everywhere,
even in Northern Quebec among the Cree. Some of the strangest people I’ve ever
met, I’ve met in the bush with Papa. Eccentrics of all kinds, people who make
the Hons and Joss look quite ordinary. It’s not the package Elena, it’s the
heart.”

“You are remarkable!” Her hand suddenly squeezed mine slightly and withdrew,
“But knowing me can be dangerous to your health.”

Conversation halted as driving got tricky, and we finally turned east toward
Wiltshire. I found the road much in the condition I expected, and two tire
changes were necessary before we rolled into a small hotel in Salisbury for
the night. However, between Elena’s help and our spirited conversation, the
changes were swift.

Later over dinner, I asked her. “Do you think the girls liked me?”

“Joss doesn’t invite just anyone to her country pile for shooting in the New
Year, Mariah. You passed with honours.”

I felt slightly embarrassed, “I’ve been looking for a place in South Kensington.
For us.” I confessed.

“I’ve suspected this much from Papa’s conversation. Uncle John likes to talk.”
Her voice was teasing again, but gentle. “The place in South Kensington you’ve
been looking at, the way the girls liked you, and the way they were with you.
Everything’s perfect. You are perfect but - ” She stopped suddenly, searching
for the words, but I spoke first.

“I thought on the ship that we would connect.” I said.

Her eyes showed concern. “No, it’s not that. You are so young Mariah and the
world is truly your oyster because of your fortune. I want you to have the
freedom this gives. And if things go further, I want you to be quite sure.”

“I see,” I felt stiff and bereft. “Don’t you think I know my own mind?”

“I don’t know. I want you to be sure, quite sure, if anything happens between
us. I wouldn’t flirt and forget Uncle John’s daughter, Mariah. I couldn’t.
You must see this! We will always be friends, good friends – even probably
best friends. And that is not worth endangering for anything. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said. I felt slightly confused, as if something so close
in reach had been pulled away from me. “You think because I’m young I don’t
know what I want, but I do and I’m not going to change.”

“Please Mariah, give this the time that it needs!” She leaned forward and
touched my jacketed arm and held it. Through the cloth, I felt a heated warmth,
the trace of electric energy between us. Her icy blue depths penetrated and
melted my inner core slightly. There was a sadness in her demeanour, a sadness
and the flinty rock of hope as well. I’d have to wait for more than this.

Suddenly, those slightly softening blue eyes regained their focus as she looked
behind me at someone leaving the room. She stood up slightly and moved in closer
to my ear.

“Did you see that woman in the gray suit behind you, the one with the washed
out brown hair? As she got closer, I could’ve sworn that she was the same woman
in the blue Duesenberg we had seen on the road outside the restaurant in London.”
She whispered.

“Really? How strange!”

“Did you see anyone pass us on the road?” her eyes were sharp.

“No,” I shook my head, “several people passed us on the road and as you might
recall we were both busy changing tires, a pursuit I could abridged if I’d brought
a chauffeur. But we decided to forgo that for the pleasure of our own company.”

She smiled suddenly, “And the simply pleasure of being alone with you. I just
had one of those moments, the strangest sensation.”

“Maybe, you’re tired.” I suggested.

“Probably,” she agreed.

“Well, we need to make an early start,” I concluded,
beginning to gather my wraps and purse.

She stopped me with a swift, concerned glance.
“Please be careful, little one and watch your door.” Then she stroked my cheek
for a brief moment. A shiver ran through me; then she drew back suddenly.

We made our way to our rooms together and I noticed she checked the locks.
In the morning, she was bright and ready to travel again. I noticed that she
was wary on the road and watched each passer-by with penetration as though daring
them to come near.

After a long drive, we reached the road into St. Ives just before six. High
cliffs ran directly into the small, fishing town. I could see the white lighthouse
beacon in the harbour, the rolling harsh gray seas of December and the newish
brick Victorian houses on The Terrace that faced the harbour on the road above
the tiny sleeping town. In one of these, my father had established his surgery.
Holmes was there too, for the duration of the holiday. We had made it on the
first leg of the longest journey of my life, the journey that I hoped would
lead me to Elena.